Living My Life - Emma Goldman [171]
“That’s very nice of you,” I replied, “but why don’t you disperse the crowd? Why don’t you use the same measures against these people that you have against the free-speech fighters? Your ordinance makes it a crime to gather in the business districts. Hundreds of I.W.W.’s, anarchists, socialists, and trade-union men have been clubbed and arrested, and some even killed, for this offence. Yet you allow the Vigilante mob to congregate in the busiest part of the town and obstruct traffic. All you have to do is to disperse these law-breakers.”
“We can’t do it,” he said abruptly; “these people are in a dangerous mood, and your presence makes things worse.”
“Very well, then, let me speak to the crowd,” I suggested. “I could do it from a window here. I have faced infuriated men before and I have always been able to pacify them.”
The Mayor refused.
“I have never accepted protection from the police,” I then said, “and I do not intend to do so now. I charge all of you men here with being in league with the Vigilantes.”
Thereupon the officials declared that matters would have to take their course, and that I should have only myself to blame if anything happened.
The interview at an end, I went to call Ben. The room I had left him in was locked. I became alarmed and pounded on the door. There was no answer. The noise I made brought a hotel clerk. He unlocked the door, but no one was there. I ran back to the other room and met the Chief, who was just coming out.
“Where is Reitman?” I demanded. “What have you done with him? If any harm comes to him, you will pay for it if I have to do it with my own hands.”
“How should I know?” he replied gruffly.
Mr. Holmes was not in his office, and no one would tell me what had become of Ben Reitman. In consternation I returned to my room. Ben did not appear. In dismay I paced the floor, unable to decide what steps to take or whom to approach to help me find Ben. [ ... ]
I felt helpless. Time dragged on, and at midnight I dozed off from sheer fatigue. I dreamed of Ben, bound and gagged, his hands groping for me. I struggled to reach him and woke up with a scream, bathed in sweat. There were voices and loud knocking at my door. When I opened, the house detective and another man stepped in. Reitman was safe, they told me. I looked at them in a daze, hardly grasping their meaning. Ben had been taken out by the Vigilantes, they explained, but no harm had come to him. They had only put him on a train for Los Angeles. I did not believe the detective, but the other man looked honest. He reiterated that he had been given absolute assurance that Reitman was safe. [ ... ]
Mr. Holmes seemed genuinely concerned. I knew there was no chance of holding a meeting. Now that Ben was safe, there was no sense in harassing Mr. Holmes any further. I consented to leave, planning to take the Owl, the 2:45 A.M. train, for Los Angeles. I called for a taxi and drove to the station. The town was asleep, the streets deserted.
I had just purchased my ticket and was walking towards the Pullman car when I caught the sound of approaching autos—the fearful sound I had first heard at the station and later at the hotel. The Vigilantes, of course.
“Hurry, hurry!” someone cried; “get in quick!”
Before I had time to make another step, I was picked up, carried to the train, and literally thrown into the compartment. The blinds were pulled down and I was locked in. The Vigilantes had arrived and were rushing up and down the platform, shouting and trying to board the train. The crew was on guard, refusing to let them on. There was mad yelling and cursing—hideous and terrifying moments till at last the train pulled out.
We stopped at innumerable stations. Each time I peered out eagerly in the hope that Ben might be waiting to join me. But there was no sign of him. When I reached my apartment in Los Angeles, he was not there. The U. S. Grant Hotel men had lied